


Red, Like Life

by draw_a_circle_thats_the_foxhole



Series: Prompt Fills [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Vague Fruk and mentioned Scotfra but mostly gratuitous art references., Warning: Alcohol, warning: a wee bit of sex, warning: child abandonment, warning: shit parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24609067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draw_a_circle_thats_the_foxhole/pseuds/draw_a_circle_thats_the_foxhole
Summary: At the height of the British Empire, Francis ponders his only child.Vague Fruk and mentioned Scotfra but mostly gratuitous art references. Francis and Arthur are both shit parents, tbh. Also takes place in the Sure of the Sea timeline.Crossposted from Tumblr.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Series: Prompt Fills [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1779040
Kudos: 10





	Red, Like Life

**Author's Note:**

> Abstract Prompt #22: Red, like life. Francis ponders the kind of love.

Sometimes, Francis looks upon Arthur with jealousy as intense as battle. Hatred rises where desire usually festers, a disease in its own right. Above the mantel crowded with knicknacks in both the parlour of the estate and the London townhouse, Arthur has a map, the ocean green as one of Monet’s Japanese bridges. His possessions outlined in black, India and half of the world stamped with St. Edwards crown. But his children? Their borders are traced in possessive red lines the very shade of Champaigne’s portrait of Cardinal Richelieu. Francis knows it is the children in red because America, not part of the British Empire for a century, is outlined in bold boiled lobsterback the very same as Canada, Australia and New Zealand. Francis thinks Arthur does love his children. But mostly, he possesses them.

Near their places on the map, are the portraits, peaking out between a stuffed great Auk and a vase Francis can only assume was pilfered. Photographs on a silver plate, at least a decade old now. But Francis has not stepped foot in Arthur’s private apartments in Buckingham since they were taken. To the left, above the continent the elder brothers share is Alfred, smirking and smartly dressed, new wealth in every stitch of fabric. Alfred, tall and broad, cocksure with his power growing by the day, framed in mahogany and standing alone.

The youngest sit together in one photo. Arthur’s only daughter is a soft sort of beauty. Her dark hair is bound up in combs around a round face. She is placid in the way a girl composes herself after being scolded for laughing in church. Her dress has the sheen of silk, a fashionable cameo at her throat. The girl’s eyes carry something of her father’s intelligence without a trace of his ambition. She has grown since Francis landed settlers on her islands and was pushed back out. Arthur collected children the way some men did fine china or snuff boxes. The youngest son sits to her, head and shoulders above the girl. He looks as if he’s only just been shoved into a suit, stiff and uncomfortable with the fashionable high collar—his hand tugs at the knot in the tie and their little pale flowers in his buttonhole. The boy is grinning, sheepishly the way he did when he had the foolish inclination to bring his wine to Europe. They each have a bit of Arthur in their brows, maybe in the chin but blessed with health and happiness, have much more in the way of looks.

And then there is the boy that was once his son.

He wonders the circumstances of the photograph. Matthieu is standing above and behind the seated antipodes as if on guard. He is dressed modestly, something threadbare looking about the dark serge fabric around his narrow shoulders that seems at odds with the beautiful clothes of the girl especially. But Matthieu has always been a modest boy. His face is wan, shadows at his eyes and under cheekbones, as weary as one of Millet’s peasant farmers stooped from planting. But, even so, he is tall, and there is something contented there, happy even. His hair is longer than fashionable, curly and at odds with the point of his jaw. Francis could reach out and trace it, but why bother? His own is the same, falling in helixes.

When Arthur comes back from the whiskey, he’s still looking at his son. He’s not sure if he prays to his mother, the Virgin or Jeanne but Oh, keep him safe. Arthur clears his throat, flushed red with sex and whiskey and Francis moves on. He drinks deeply after Arthur clinks his glass against Francis’ own and refills the cut-glass tumblers. Francis relishes the burn of the whiskey and the sharp kisses on his throat. A land of wine and cognac, he has still long since gotten used to the taste of whiskey. A land of amour and affection, he has ever loved the sting of Arthur’s love. Whiskey had made the first years of the Auld Alliance move faster. It had numbed his keening for the other half of the island that he never possessed. After a while, he’d come to love Scotland. For the man himself rather than the more significant threat, they posed to England together. But when England has him, it is all he wants. There has never been a real competition from another, only the centuries of their ambitions crossing the channel and each other. Oh, his dearest enemy. Francis sighs. He never was going to be a family man.

He mustered more initiative for Arthur’s body in the arms of Alasdair than he did the life of his only child on the prow of a warship. A century and change later? All he can muster is a shallow sort of jealousy. The same the way he does when he loses a pawn in a game of chess he doesn’t particularly care about. Crossing swords with Arthur had always had more appeal than crown or child. He takes more whiskey from Arthur. His son lives. It is enough. He has what Francis never could give him. Mattieu is bound to a family with red lines of English sea lanes that bring life to the shores of his only son. Lines like veins, red veins like life itself. When Arthur’s hand slides down his back, Francis hopes, if only vaguely before his mind switches from logic to l'amour, that at least his boy is not lonely.

**Author's Note:**

> Francis abandoned Matt, tbh. But its okay, he found another family. Arthur's a shit parent but hey, that's what the sibling support group is for!
> 
> I'm on tumblr here:
> 
> https://draw-a-circle-thats-the-foxhole.tumblr.com/
> 
> I post history and Hetalia and aesthetics.
> 
> Kudos, comments and critiques are life. Thank you for reading!


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